Maricopa

We arrived in Maricopa April 2.  Uncle Bill thought it was funny that we came from Maricopa, Arizona, to Maricopa, California.

“Just think about how many people will get a kick outta that one,” he said.

“I’m going for a run,” I said.  

Dad glanced up, not at me.  Near me.  “Go up along Klipstein to the highway.  Open Country.”

 I took off.

*

The streets were flat and dusty, cracked asphalt until the highway began.  I ran the shoulder.  I could see mountains in the distance.  There was a For Rent sign in front of a trailer off the highway.  I wondered how far off the mountains were and went blank.  I just ran.

*

They were all in the backyard sitting on lawn chairs with drinks.  I saw them through the kitchen window.  They looked like they were having a good time.  Bill was telling a story.  They all seemed to be enjoying it.  

My parents got the extra room.  I took the couch.  It didn’t matter. I could sleep anywhere.

Mom was sitting on the bed when I got out of the shower.  “Maybe we’ll take up running.”

She looked up at me.  We were all trying.  But it was harder for them.  

*

Bill and Meg were in the kitchen early the next morning.  My feet hung over the edge of the couch.  I could hear them whispering in the kitchen.

“It’ll be fine,” Bill said.

“You’d think she would be grateful.”

“They didn’t ask for this.”

“Didn’t they?”  

There was no answer.  Someone set down a cup on the table.  It sounded sharp.  Their voices got softer when the door to my parents’ room opened.  My dad went into the bathroom.  I got up and walked to the door and pushed in.   Dad looked tired.  He leaned against the sink, gripping it.  I pissed.  He was about to say something.  I wished he would just say it but the words didn’t come.

As he turned to leave, I said: “They’re talking about us.”

Dad stood still against the bathroom door.  His face was inches away from a pink fuzzy robe.  He was looking at it so intently that it became funny.  “Who the fuck wears this?”

He turned slightly to me.  I could see the edges of his mouth.  It was the first time in a long time I thought we were going to be okay.  

“The couch okay?” he asked.

I said yeah.  “My feet hang over the edge.”  

“That’s what you get for being my son.”

My throat was tight.  I couldn’t remember when it wasn’t.

*

I ran.  The air was cold and still as I passed the field with the trailer.  It looked small against the land.  The fiberglass sides didn’t reflect the sun very well.  The road was quiet, no wind and no traffic.  I could hear my heartbeat.

A man walked around the corner.  He looked familiar.  I stopped running.

“Go running down on past the trailer.”  He pointed up the wide, wide field.  A dirt road cut up from the highway. 

“It’s okay with you?”

“Trailer’s open. In case you ever need a place to crash.”  Then: “You’re the image of your dad.”

“You know my dad?”

He walked to his truck and drove off up the dirt road.

*

It took some pulling to open the door.  Everything creaked when I climbed in.   The whole trailer looked old but clean.  Like a motel room.

I pushed on the mattress in the back room.  I opened a drawer.  A flashlight rolled forward.  I turned it on.  The batteries still worked.  I don’t know why I laid down on the bed.  The edges of it curled up a little.  My shoes hung off the end.  I kicked them off. I folded my hands over my chest.  I heard the wind come up against the slatted windows.  I was calm.

It had been a long drive.  Once mom and dad decided to leave, we just left and drove.  My duffel was packed in fifteen minutes. I took clothes and a book, all my workout shorts and shoes, a nice pair of pants and a shirt.  I’d heard Bill and Meg were religious.

I fell asleep.  I felt the trailer sway.  I felt better.  For a long time I didn’t move.  The bed hit me just right.  The trailer creaked again when I stepped off the ledge and closed the door.  I looked at the dirt road next to it.  There was no end. 

*

Bill and dad were in the kitchen.  I heard Bill say something about someone needing help at some garage.  Dad could fix anything.  I stopped to listen.

“I could vouch for you,” Bill said.  “Everybody falls on hard times.”

“Yeah.”  He sounded like his voice was coming from a corner of the house.  “I’d like that.” 

Bill had no right to treat him like he needed help.  Dad didn’t do anything wrong.

I did.

*

Dad got in late.   He woke me up by tapping my feet.  I bent my knees before he fell into the couch.  I would smell whiskey.

“You okay dad?”

Dad and I used to drink together, just a few months ago.

“Steadman says he could pick you out of a crowd.”  He said it quietly.  I could barely hear.

“Who?”

Dad pointed down some road somewhere.  “Said you remind him of me.”  He drifted back.  “This is nowhere.  Only thing to do was get fucked up.  You get that from me.”  He put his hand on my foot. “I didn’t mean it that way.” 

“Wish I could’a come drinking.” I loved my dad.

“We went shooting.”

“Yeah?”

“Out at Steadman’s trailer.  Shooting and drinking like we were young and stupid instead of old and stupid.” 

He asked me if I liked the trailer.  “Totally alone out there.”

“Yeah.”

Dad fell silent. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand.  He was choking up.

“Dad,” I said.  “I’m sorry.”

“No.”  Then:  “I’m your dad.  This was mine.  Ours.  Your mother and me.”

I laid there a long time. It hurt how much they loved me.

*

I ran the field.  The sun came up and I ran the dirt road.  I ran until I couldn’t feel my legs.  There was still field to go so I went further.  I tripped, went down hard, tasted dirt in my mouth, then blood.  Something stung.  I didn’t care.  I got up, saw my knee, the flap of skin.  I pulled it off.  It bled.  I turned around.  I kept running.

A truck moved toward the trailer.  I fell again.  Steadman parked, got out of the truck, walked over to me.  He took a bandana out of his back pocket. 

I saw tears hitting the dirt.  

“Wrap this around your knee.”  Steadman pulled me up.  I limped next to him.

He stopped at the trailer.  “First aid kit inside.  Get yourself cleaned up.”

I climbed inside.  He didn’t follow.  I washed up at the sink.  I found the kit under the sink.  The alcohol stung.  I hit my face, over and over.   I was as empty as the trailer.  Steadman knocked on the door.  I wrapped up my knee and left.  The tailgate of the truck was down.  He had a beer in his hand.

“Want one?”

I nodded.  I looked across the highway, north to the edges of the horizon.  We talked.

*

He drove me back to Bill and Meg’s.  He told me to stay in the truck.  Mom came out after a while and sat behind the wheel.  She saw my knee wrapped in his bandana.

We sat for a long time.  Meg came out.  Mom opened the door and stepped out as Meg took her hand and led her a few steps away from the truck.  

Still holding Mom’s hand, she said:  “I didn’t know.”

She hugged Mom.  

“I thought he got some girl pregnant.”  Then she said:  “Protecting your boy is the only thing that matters.  Ever.”

*

I live in the trailer now.  Steadman stops by every now and again.  Dad and I have beers again.  He works at the garage.  Mom comes by to sit in the lawn chairs she bought.  We talk.  

This Maricopa’s better than the last one.  No internet.  No pics.  Mom laughs more.  So does dad.

I’m taking it slow.  Just like the town.  Slow and steady and on for miles.